I slide the quarter into the payphone, listening to it crash inside the machine like a penny the bottom of a wishing well. I dial the numbers slowly, carefully, as if afraid that I could make a mistake with the number I knew better than any other. The line rings, but the sound is distant and muffled. I press the receiver closer to my ear, counting the seconds, waiting for the inevitable, never ready, always hoping.
I hear the click. It's sharp, like the shutter of a camera. I hold my breath.
"Hello?"
Closing my eyes, I drink in the voice. I cling to the way the accent plays with the sound of the letters, the way the word rises at the end, the way emotion slips into a shaky exhale at the end.
The silence is strained, the hesitation is evident. And then it comes again. "Hello? Hello, is someone there?"
Yes, I whisper in my head. Yes, I'm here. I never left. Please, please, don't hang up. I don't know when I can call you again.
There's another pause, longer this time. There's nothing but the sound of them breathing, husky, ragged, broken.
"Who is this?"
My hand is shaking. I've curled the phone cord between my fingers, imagining it's their hand, their hair, their shirt. What I would give for that to be true. I bite my lip, still holding my breath, still holding on. I can't last much longer.
There's a sigh. It's a single note, long and drawn out, but unspoken sentiment and pain rides in the sound, like a lost shoe an ocean wave, the shore so far from sight. That anguish is my fault, I know that. I rest my head on the machine, the metal edges digging into my skin. Not yet, I think, don't hang up yet. Please. Just a little while longer.
They try once more. Maybe they know. Maybe they're hoping just as hard as I am. Their voice is little more than a murmur now, vulnerable, raw. "Hello?"
And then I hear the click. It's sharp, like the trigger of a gun. I let out my breath.
"Forgive me John."
I leave the booth, not even bothering to put the phone back onto the receiver. It dangles in the air, by the end of its cord, swaying in the small breeze that snakes through the cracked glass that's supposed to protect it. I have only one foot out the door when I hear a sound, loud in my ears but quiet in reality. I stumble.
"Sherlock?"
I turn back. I have to. The little plastic phone still sways, the arches getting smaller and smaller. His voice calls out of it, like he's fighting with himself, like he's fighting for his last breath. He sounds so small, so desperate.
"Sherlock. Sherlock, please. Sherlock…"
It's been three years. I can hear the pain of every single one of those days in his voice. I'm trapped, trapped between walking away and turning back.
Both will kill me.
I don't move from where I am, but I reach for the phone, gingerly cupping it in my palm. I move it towards the receiver, meaning to put it back, to silence that drowning voice, to stop it from haunting me. No one is speaking now, but I know he's still there, waiting for the inevitable, never ready, never daring to hope, but still waiting.
Stepping back inside, I place the phone to my ear.
"I love you," I say.
But he doesn't answer. He can't. I hung up just before I spoke.